Only Dancing
by OwMyFace
Summary: Tseng lets his hair down during a late night at the office.


**Only Dancing**

It's nearly midnight and Tseng is still standing at his desk high in the Shinra building. His computer is raised on a stand up to his eye height, and light from its screen bleaches his face, filling out even the dark hollows under his eyes and cheekbones so that his features are just smooth planes, the colour of new snow. Out his window, Midgar unfolds, the buildings cowering under great green plumes of exhaust that gush from the mako reactors.

He can feel the weight of a full day of standing in his limbs, but he keeps his back stiff, shoulders square, weight even on both feet. The Director of the Turks can't be seen slumping. It feels good to match his mental exhaustion with a tiredness in his body.

The other Turks left hours ago, when it was still light outside. Every day they leave at five, and he buries himself in the night. The work never ends. There are always messages to be sent, reports to write, intelligence to assess. Each morning he compiles a list of tasks for the day, a concise list, achievable. But as the day ages, job after job gets piled on until by the evening the list has become a swollen, monstrous thing he must battle alone into the small hours of the morning. When others imagine the Director of the Turks, Tseng sometimes thinks, they must picture him on top-secret missions to the hearts of terrorist cells, or hunting down rogue Shinra personnel. No one knows that his real foes are towers of paper and fearsome brown folders gorged on wads of files.

He stifles a yawn and stretches, hands behind his head, twisting out the tight spots in his back. A couple of vertebrae pop. Tonight's list is not as formidable as they sometimes are, and he thinks another hour should finish it off, as long as he doesn't let his work rate slacken any more.

He's had trouble concentrating this evening because there is this damn song bouncing around in his brain. It's just some crude pop number, but the others were listening to it in the office that afternoon, and somehow it's seeped through his skull. Now the song is like a cough he can't shake, always trying to pull him away from whatever he's thinking about. Several times he's reached the end of a page and realised he hasn't absorbed a word of it.

Occasionally during these late nights he'll listen to a classical piece. Refined, elegant music, but also undemanding. It lacks the hooks that grab his attention, the repetitive beat that chips away at his brain. Tonight he thinks he'll try some Lindenberg. Perhaps it will drive the pop song from his head.

The music floats out of his computer speakers while he stares at the screen and taps occasionally at the keyboard. It unfurls like a flower. At first just a thin hum of strings. Then the wind instruments twirl in, followed by a brass section that grabs the song and carries it up and up to a soaring crescendo, each instrument shouting the same bold melody, so rich, so perfect, an intricate tapestry of sound. But as the last note fades Tseng realises that it hasn't worked. That ridiculous bass line swaggers right back into his head.

He slams a fist down on the desk, his lip curled and his nose pinched up in disgust. Then he takes a deep breath and makes his face drop its sneer. It's just a song. He shouldn't let himself get so worked up; imagine if someone else had seen that outburst. So much of his authority comes from the others knowing he is above such emotions, and will always make the most rational decisions.

One recourse still remains to him, although he has been saving it as a last resort. It's possible that listening to the song again, the whole song, will purge it from his head. If he wants to get any sleep tonight, playing it another time is really his only option. But is he really that desperate, he wonders. As the empty words of the chorus go another round in his brain, he decides he is.

He walks through the door that connects his office to the larger, open-plan space that his fellow Turks occupy during the day. It's dark through there, but stripes of mako light seep in through the gaps between the blinds on the far window and coat everything in a thin green film. Computer screens, desks, stacks of paper are all stained with its sickly glow.

Tseng's eyes scour the gloom for the stereo and soon spot it on the bench beside the coffee machine. He strides over and snatches it up into his arms. It's just one of those cheap, bug shaped units, easily carried. He lugs it through to his office and dumps it on the floor. After plugging it in, he hits play.

That central riff bubbles up and starts repeating, over and over and over. It doesn't ever go anywhere. Who would listen to this drivel voluntarily?

Tseng stalks back to his desk and tries to thrust his mind back into the work. No good. A strange tapping noise is coming from somewhere. It's even more distracting than the pop number thumping away in the background. He looks down and realises it's his own foot stamping on the carpet in time to the beat of the song. Is his body betraying him? He certainly isn't doing it voluntarily.

The song is plunging into the chorus now, and as Tseng listens he has to admit that it's hard not to get swept up in its momentum. Before he realises what's going on, he has shrugged out of his jacket and thrown it into a crumpled pile on the floor. Next off are his shoes, which he levers off his feet and sends spinning into the corner with a kind of scissor kick. He loosens the knot of his tie so it hangs limp around his neck. And he starts to dance.

What the hell is he doing, he wonders as he waves his arms around. What if someone sees? Then he realises he doesn't care. This feels good.

He spins from side to side on the balls of his feet down to a crouch above the floor, and then back up to a standing position. The bassline struts along. That repetitive central riff – why would anyone change it? It's so catchy! He jogs along the length of the room, pointing at the ceiling. He kicks out into the air and drops into a lunge, fingers tumbling down the neck of an air guitar. When the song launches into the chorus again, he hurls every word from his lungs. As it thunders to a close he dashes across the room, leaps, and slides on his knees along the floor, body swept back, arms spread wide. He comes to a halt in front of the office door, panting. His cheeks are flushed red.

Then the door opens. Tsengs eyes are level with the fly of a pair of black trousers. He looks up, takes in the dangling shirt tails, the gaping collar, the unruly blaze of red hair. Something deep inside him withers.

"Yo," Reno says. Slurs, rather. Even from this distance Tseng can smell the alcohol on his breath. The redhead leans agains the doorframe for support. His arms are folded.

Tseng's body is frozen and he feels like he's about to choke on his tongue. As soon as the others hear about this, it's over, he realises. No one will respect another word he says.

"We've been out," Reno says, gesturing loosely over his shoulder. "Just came back to get my cigarettes. I thought I heard music, or something. You working still?"

Tseng gets to his feet, pulling his tie tight again as thought it will restore his dignity.

"I am," he says. "There's a lot of work to be done."

Reno nods and looks around the room. Tseng is holding his breath, just waiting for the first wisecrack. His stomach feels tight.

"Well, sucks to be you," is all Reno says. He shoots off a sloppy smile, but there's a kind of knowing glimmer dancing in the back of his eyes that Tseng doesn't like the look of. "Well, I've got my cancers, and I'm beat. Gonna head home. See you tomorrow."

As the red haired Turk turns to leave, Tseng's hand shoots out like a cobra and grabs his arm. Its knuckles are white.

"Reno," the Director says. "You can't tell anyone about this."

Reno lets out a wet, drunk laugh. "Relax, man. I won't say a word about your little dance party."

"I'm serious."

"Of course. But even if I did spill, would it really matter?"

"I believe it would."

"Well, you're wrong, Boss. No one would care. Shit, we'd probably like you more. We all do stuff like this, when the pressure's on. You ask me, you've got to do something pretty nuts every once in a while if you want to stay sane. You haven't seen what Rude gets up to."

"What's that?"

Reno winks and taps the side of his nose with a finger on his free hand. "You going to let go?"

Tseng looks down and sees he's still gripping the redhead's arm. He releases it and Reno ambles out, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette. He's whistling a very familiar tune. Tseng has to smile.

"See you tomorrow," Reno calls from the doorway.

"Don't be late."

Reno laughs and flips him two fingers as he leaves.

When his colleague's footsteps have faded, Tseng gathers his jacket from the floor and drapes it over the back of a nearby chair. He picks up his shoes from the corner and places them neatly under his desk. Then he goes and presses play on the stereo again.

* * *

_The image of Tseng dancing in his office just kind of popped into my head one day. It kind of appealed to me for some reason, so I thought I'd write a story around it. I'm not really sure what the point of the piece is, but it was lots of fun to write. Hopefully it's fun to read as well!_

_Feedback is always super welcome._


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